


The Misplaced Nephew of Thorin Oakenshield

by karategal



Series: A Hobbit in the Lonely Mountain [6]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dwarf Culture, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Hobbit Culture, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, M/M, Protectiveness, Thorin's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-11 14:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karategal/pseuds/karategal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin has a bad habit of misplacing his youngest nephew. The first time's a mistake. The second time's a coincidence. The third time's a pattern. And as usual, Bilbo's either unaware or not amused by his husband's ridiculous ability to lose Frodo. Chaos and hilarity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Misplaced in Erebor

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or actors from _The Hobbit_. Everything belongs to the great and powerful J.R.R. Tolkien.

Thorin had lost his nephew.

And no, he wasn't referring to tweedledee and tweedledum. Despite popular belief, Fíli and Kíli were capable of taking care of themselves. Well, most of the time. Or half of the time. Okay, so maybe it was always a gamble with those two, but Thorin had high hopes for them. Naïve and ridiculous ones, but hopes nonetheless. However, the nephews of Thorin's blood were the least of his concerns right now.

Somehow and someway, the King Under the Mountain had lost _Frodo_.

He wasn't quite sure how he did it, but Thorin had spent the last two hours charging through his magnificent kingdom, dwarves of all kinds bowing and waving to their majestically wonderful king. What none of them knew, however, was that said wonderful King had misplaced his twelve-year-old nephew. One minute, Frodo was playing with Granite and Beryl in the main hallway of the royal wing and then poof! Frodo was gone.

It was like a filthy wyrm had snatched him up!

Well, okay, Thorin might have wandered off for a couple minutes to speak with a Stiffbeard emissary, but the duties of a Dwarf-King waited for no one. Unfortunately, this also seemed to apply to his youngest nephew. Thorin didn't know if he should be proud or screaming at his Maker's wife. The lad was terribly clever at the worst of times, but to just sneak out from underneath Thorin's nose?

The whole situation was disgraceful and ridiculous and migraine-inducing and...

Bilbo was going to _kill_ him. Or divorce him.

Personally, given the circumstances and his dependence on a certain hobbit to survive, Thorin preferred the first option over the second option. Mostly because the latter choice would lead to a slow and painful death, anyways. He needed to prioritize here.

"Dwalin..."

And no, Thorin was not skulking through the training hall. As Erebor's King, he was far above such lowly behavior. No matter what Bilbo or his sister or Balin or the boys had to say on the matter.

"Dwalin..."

Honestly, why were dwarves so damned nosy?! This was _his_ kingdom and he could stay low and close to the walls if he wanted. Pointing and twittering at the King himself was deplorable behavior. Thorin needed to hire newer, dumber guards.

"Dwalin!"

The giant dwarf finally turned around and walked over to his King. "Why are you hiding under the stands like the thief?"

"We have a situation."

"By Mahâl, if this is about your sister's and Balin's plan to organize yet another bloody—"

"I misplaced Frodo."

For the first time in a _long_ time, Dwalin looked well and truly speechless. "You...whoa..."

"I can't find Frodo. He's run off somewhere."

Dwalin blinked and didn't put up any resistance when Thorin dragged him out into the neighboring corridors. The Dwarf-King paced back and forth in distress, fingers tugging incessantly at his disheveled hair. Thankfully, none of the nosy guards tried to follow them.

"How on Arda did you manage to lose the munchkin?"

"I don't know! He was there one minute and poof! He was gone. And the hounds must've run off with him."

"When is Bilbo due back from Dale?"

Thorin sighed. "Late this evening, if Bombur acquires all of the necessary supplies."

"Well, c'mon then."

"Huh..."

"Don't just stand there, you elf-loving fool." Dwalin grabbed him by the shoulder and started down the hallway. "We've got a munchkin to track down. Did you check the goat stalls or library yet?"

"No."

Dwalin rolled his eyes. "Becoming a parent turns people into fools."

They combed through all of Frodo's most frequent haunts and Thorin became more and more panicked with every empty space. Erebor wasn't the Shire; there were yawning caverns and mines and sudden drops all over the city. And only certain sections of the mountain contained reliable railings, something that Bilbo often complained about. In fact, his husband had mentioned it shortly before leaving for Dale and its farms. Frodo had nearly taken a tumble while playing with Donel and—

"Why doesn't this city have any railings?!" demanded Thorin as they walked through the Gallery of Kings. "It's a death trap for children!"

"Then have them installed after we find the runt. Not that dwarflings have any problem with the lack of them, but Erebor's got a pair of hobbits and a fair number of human youngsters running around it now. Did you check the kitchens?"

"Of course! It's the first place I looked. He's a hobbit, after all."

"And the skin-changers are all on patrol at this time of the week," Dwalin mumbled to himself. "Would've been nice to have one of their noses right now."

"If he ventured into the mines again, I swear that I'll—"

Dwalin grabbed the King before he could launch into another anxious rant. "C'mon, let's check the kitchens again."

"I told you, I've already checked there."

"And who's the best tracker of this addle-brained friendship, eh?" Thorin didn't say a word. "Aye, that'd be me. So, off to the kitchens we go, my directionally challenged King."

"You know I get the jerks when above ground. It's a common ailment and you know it."

"Of course, it is, Your Royal Lostness."

It took them several minutes to reach the kitchens, which were on the opposite side of the middle city. Dwalin paused in the doorway, eyes roving all over the floors and nearby tables. None of the kitchen staff bothered them, although the head cook did quirk an eyebrow in amusement. The King and his burly cousin rarely ventured into Bilbo's and Bombur's domain unless they were pilfering desserts or Master Dokor's prized ale. It was Hania who eventually approached them.

"Master Dwalin, my King," she said with a short bow, "What brings the two of you into the Consort's kingdom?"

"Thorin lost Frodo."

"I didn't lose him," growled the King. "He simply wandered off and we need to find him."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Dwalin started searching around the massive kitchens after that, his usual glower scaring the whiskers off of anyone he encountered, be they a cook or scullery maid. Most of them scampered off before the Royal Captain came within twenty feet of them.

"I haven't seen him myself," said Hania, "But you're more than welcome to look around. Has the Consort returned yet?"

The Dwarf-King scowled. "You'll know when he does return because Dís will be crowned Queen Under the Mountain and my remains will be lost forever to the eastern mines."

"I'm sure he'd understand..."

"Oh, no, he really won't. Not when it comes to Frodo. An Oliphant's kinder than Bilbo in a protective rage."

Sadly, Bombur's wife did not understand just how vicious and uncivilized Thorin's sweet-natured hobbit could be when it came to their nephews. It was okay in Bilbo's eyes for the dwarves and dignitaries and nobles to speak behind his back and question his decisions and insult his hobbit-y ways. But disparage any of their three nephews? Well, no one tended to last long after that.

"Thorin! You might want to come over here."

With a brief bow to his friend's lovely wife, Thorin made short work of the distance between him and Dwalin. The large dwarf was waiting for him near a pile of potato sacks, his eyebrow raised in that subtly amused manner of his. If Thorin hadn't known his cousin so well, he would've mistaken it for derision.

"Aye? Did you find..."

Right there, in a hidden corner on the far side of the kitchen, was a pile of deerhounds and slumbering faunt. Three bowls sat just out of sight, licked clean by the hungry and unmannered tongues of Erebor's furriest and smallest gluttons. For the first time in six hours, Thorin felt his heart return to a steady beat. He'd been genuinely terrified that something had happened to the lad. If Frodo had been harmed by his own inattention, Thorin would have never—

"What are you two doing down here?"

Both dwarves whirled around and came face to chest with Erebor's second hobbit. Curly head tilted in bemusement, Bilbo stealthily peeked around their combined bulk and smiled at the sight that greeted him.

"Ah, an evening meal and a tuckered out nap, I see. Master Loni's stews tend to have that effect. And goodness, you two look exhausted. Long day?"

Dwalin nodded. "Aye, it's that bloody stew. Knocks a dwarf clean out."

"Well, then it'd be best that we all get to our chambers for a nice bath and rest then," said Bilbo with a tired smile. "My feet and ears feel like they could fall off. I think some of Bard's farmers would rival Gaffer Gamgee in their plant-induced enthusiasm."

"Of course, of course."

Thorin bent down and picked up his slumbering nephew. Instinctively, both Beryl and Granite woke up with mighty yawns, ears flopping back when the King leveled a fierce glower at them. Frodo snuffled into his shoulder.

"You're going to be the death of me, mizimith."


	2. Misplaced in Esgaroth

Okay, there was no need to panic. Thorin was a responsible dwarf. He could handle this.

Well, that's what he kept telling himself. Every empty corner and store and dock made his heart pump faster with blood, all kinds of terrible scenarios running through his mind like a bloodthirsty warg. Thorin had turned his back for one second—just one bloody second!—and Frodo had disappeared from his side and into the churning crowds that made up Esgaroth's markets.

"Have you found any sign of him yet?"

Thorin turned to his best friend. "No, and I've checked all of the docks and lower stalls."

"I should've carried him," growled Dwalin. "He's still so damned small. I should've known better than to leave him on the ground at that time of day."

"Have you heard any word from the guards?"

A foghorn caught Thorin's attention and he glanced out across the docks, eyes trailing nervously over the many barges that were coming and going across the choppy waters. The Dwarf-King and two dozen dwarves had descended upon Esgaroth to meet with several river and woodsmen who had proposed some very promising trade agreements with Dale and the Lonely Mountain. Unfortunately, Bilbo had come down with an awful cold the morning before and everyone else of import was busy with other unavoidable duties, so Thorin had decided to represent and oversee the day-long negotiations himself.

However, he hadn't expected Esgaroth's docks and markets to be so congested. Or for his faunt to be swallowed by the crowds.

"They're still combing the upper markets." The bald warrior shook his head in frustration. "Bain's gone looking for the runt himself. The Man-King's lad knows these walkways and docks better than anyone else, Thorin. He'll find him."

"I'm a terrible uncle."

A huge hand squeezed Thorin's shoulder. "Button up, you whiny whelp. Any fool can see how much you love those three boys. Only the blind could miss it."

"I _lost_ my twelve-year-old nephew, Dwalin. For the _second_ time in as many months."

"And we're going to find the lil' rascal and bring him back to the mountain safe and sound," assured Dwalin with absolute confidence. "Then our burglar can dote over him like an irritated mother-hen."

"No, that's Dori."

Dwalin grimaced at the mention of the oldest Ri brother. "Aye, no one's worse than that persnickety fusspot."

"I'm sensing some hostility here."

"He's been glaring at me for the past couple weeks. And it's the evil one, aye? The glare he uses on the thief when he's done something particularly illegal."

"You didn't insult Ori's slingshot again, did you?"

"Of course not!" Dwalin shrugged with embarrassment. "The thief put laxatives in my stew last time I did that. Never again."

"Wise decision."

They were walking through the lower markets for the third time that day, their eyes roving over every nook and cranny for a familiar mess of dark curls and pale skin. Thorin even checked under the large pots that lined a vendor's stall, the larger human staring at him like he'd lost his mind. And considering the situation, Thorin probably would've agreed with him.

"Maybe the tree-shaggers took him."

"I doubt Thranduil's spawn or the she-elf would risk Bilbo's wrath for such a foolish deed," admitted the King. "They'd simply ask Bilbo themselves."

"Still a possibility."

"Honestly, I'm a bit more concerned with finding Frodo right now. What if he fell into the water?"

That thought was absolutely horrifying. Yes, he'd taught his youngest nephew how to swim quite proficiently, but Thorin also knew that hobbits were terrible swimmers even with proper training. It was the main reason why Frodo still wasn't allowed to take deep baths by himself.

"Don't even joke about—"

"Your Highness! Your Highness! We've found him!"

The guardsman was barely able to get the words out of his mouth before Thorin and Dwalin were shoving and ordering him to take them straight to the lost fauntling. Tense with anxiety, Thorin sprinted through the wooden streets and leapt straight over any areas that would shave some seconds off of his arrival. Anyone or thing that ventured in front of him was pushed out of the way. And Thorin didn't care if it was rude or not, because getting between a parent and their missing child was terribly stupid and the King wasn't above breaking a man's arm or mouth if it got him to Frodo more quickly.

"Where is he?" demanded Thorin when they reached a dock near the butcher's shop. "Where is he?!"

Bain appeared at his side and said, "He's right over here, Thorin. I fear Frodo may have been pushed into an empty barge during the afternoon shuffle, but he appears to be just fine, if a little shook up and scared. We're reeling him in now."

"Reeling?"

"The barge wasn't properly secured and drifted a few yards out into the canal." Bain took the dwarves by the elbows and led them over to the dock edge. "The butcher's wife spotted Frodo a couple minutes ago. If you could talk to him, that'd be quite helpful."

Dwalin stepped forward and called, "Frodo? Laddie? Your uncle and I are here now."

A small head popped up over the boat's edge, blue eyes wide and watery as dock workers slowly reeled the barge in on the other side. Thorin immediately made his way over to the nearest bridge and crossed to the opposite dock. Meanwhile, Dwalin continued to talk to the frightened faunt, reassuring Frodo that he'd be out of the boat in a couple moments and they'd head straight back to the mountain after that.

"I didn't mean to wander off, honest."

"That's alright, laddie, we know that and we're not upset with you," said Dwalin, who was standing atop a large pile of barrels so that Frodo could see him. "Now, listen to the man and wrap that rope around the poles at the stern. There we go, that's a good lad."

"Why are you pulling him in so slowly?" demanded Thorin when he arrived on the other side. "We need to get him out—"

"Jostling the boat too much could frighten the child," said the dock worker. "And hobbits aren't good swimmers, so I'm not taking any chances."

"How do you know that?"

The man smiled at Thorin. "I've spoken with your husband many times, Your Highness. He appreciates fresh Dorwinion vegetables and kaffa beans. And young Master Frodo is a delight to do business with."

"Well, that's...good to know."

"Don't worry, we'll have your boy safe and sound in a few moments."

And the man was right. In two minutes, the dingy barge was pulled into the dock and a tween quickly jumped into the boat and picked up a frightened Frodo. Thorin wasted no time in snatching up his nephew, who clung tightly to the King's neck and surcoat. He kissed Frodo's curly head without a hint of shame, a lead weight finally evaporating from the dwarf's gut.

"You're to be carried in crowds from now on," said Thorin, his voice much shakier than usual. "No walking on your own anymore, understood?"

For the first time in several months, Frodo didn't even attempt to protest this particular demand. The faunt had been adamant about walking on his own in crowded areas for quite a while, insisting that he was too old to be carried around by his uncles or aunts or cousins anymore. Due to Frodo's tiny size and quiet demeanor, Bilbo and all of the dwarves had been resistant to the faunt's newest bid at independence. And now they knew why...

"He alright?" asked Dwalin after he'd given thanks to the dock workers. "No bumps or bruises?"

Still jittery from the adrenaline high and the inevitable crash that was coming, Thorin gently pried Frodo's face and hands away from his throat, which allowed Dwalin to look him over for any sign of injury. After a thorough examination, Dwalin shook his head and confirmed that physically, the lad was completely fine. Of course, Frodo's emotional state was a whole different story.

Being separated from one's parents could be terrifying for a young child, as Thorin had also learned with Fíli and Kíli several decades ago. The lads had clung to their mother and uncle for many weeks after they'd gotten themselves lost in the deepest tunnels of Thorin's Halls.

"Can we go home? I wanna go home. I want Uncle Bilbo."

The Dwarf-King nodded and signaled for Dwalin and their guards to ready the ponies for their return journey to the Lonely Mountain. Whenever Frodo was frightened by the vast world outside the Shire, he always sought out Bilbo, which had bothered Thorin at first and made him feel like an inadequate father-figure to the mild-mannered faunt. But Thorin was also the one who Frodo came to when he had a problem with dwarf culture, clogged pipes, broken windows, arithmetic, paper cuts, and bullies, so the favored-uncle-issue had eventually sorted itself out.

"I've already sent a messenger to speak with the last woodsman trader," said Dwalin. "We can leave by evening if you wish it."

Frodo's quiet whimper and excessive clinginess was all the answer they needed, especially since the faunt refused to let go of his uncle's neck. There would be no removing him in the immediate future.

"Aye, let's return home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently snowed in _again_ , so some drabble writing has taken place instead of other less important things like shoveling, thesis research, and car cleaning. And damn, I really enjoy writing Thorin and Dwalin as total goobers when they're hanging out together. Also, for those who have asked, I will still respond to private messages (PMs) on FF.net so long as it doesn't involve a blatant flame. I understand that some readers don't like posting comments for everyone to see, so just send me a PM on there and I'll gladly respond despite my actual account being inactive.


	3. Misplaced in Londaroth

Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and direct descendent of Durin the Deathless himself, was completely and utterly lost in a small northmen city.

For seventeen long months, Bilbo had been badgering him about visiting several of the northmen settlements along the southern shores of the Celduin River, most specifically Londaroth, Burh Marhlinge, and Dorwinion. The former two were major trading posts between the Lonely Mountain and the Sea of Rhûn, which meant that Bilbo was eager to meet with the local merchants and discuss potential trade agreements in person. Most rivermen cities and towns had fallen into ruin or disrepair after the fall of the dwarven keep and Dale, so Thorin wasn't surprised to see an immense amount of construction in every town or city they'd visited so far.

"I know I've seen that shop before..."

After Bilbo, Sigrid, and their escorts had left to meet with Londaroth's mayor and councils, Thorin had taken it upon himself to explore various parts of the slowly recovering city. He wasn't quite sure where his eldest nephews had run off to, but he honestly didn't care so long as there were no collapsed buildings, angry blacksmiths, or bar fights involved in their mischief. On the other hand, Thorin knew exactly _where_ his youngest nephew was and finding him wouldn't be a problem if he could figure out where the bloody inn was located! By Mahâl, _why_ did all men and elves and hobbits have to make their cities and towns so damned confusing?

"I must've made a wrong turn somewhere..."

The King had only intended on leaving the inn for a couple minutes. He'd seen a small flower shop three streets over and had wanted to purchase some daisies for his hobbit. Bilbo had been admiring them the other morning. So, Thorin had instructed a tired and cranky Frodo to remain put inside their assigned room until he returned about ten or so minutes later.

And now, ten or so minutes had turned into an hour. Maybe two. He wasn't quite sure anymore.

"Why is my life so difficult?"

Londaroth had been a good-sized town before Smaug's attack, mostly populated by humans, though dwarves were a fairly common sight due to its strategic location on the southern banks of the River Running. Thorin had retained only a vague memory of the nigh-ruined city when Bilbo had first proposed their diplomatic trip. Built on the upper and lower edges of Lindal Falls, Londaroth had funneled a massive amount of trade up to the southern shores of Long Lake and had once served as the primary residence for many industrial works in the Dale Lands. Vast acres of fields and pasture-land, with cattle and sheep and goats and pigs grazing peacefully, stretched out from the river and waterfalls on both sides, an area that now produced much of the food for Dale, Esgaroth, and Erebor.

"Excuse me..."

Thorin instinctively reached for Orcrist, his spine straightening at the strange voice a few short feet behind him. However, when he turned around to see who had snuck up on him, the dwarf instantly felt a blush spread across his not-so-majestic face.

"I'm terribly sorry, my lady," said Thorin as he re-sheathed the elven blade. "You took me by surprise."

"That's quite alright," laughed the young woman with a wave of her hand. "My husband's always accusing me of sneaking up on him like a field mouse. Nearly walloped me over the head last week."

"My husband has a similar habit as well."

All that admission received was a slight quirk of the woman's eyebrow, her kind smile revealing nothing of the prejudice that men and elves often held towards same-gender couples, which were not too uncommon amongst the highly skewed dwarven population. Instead, she gave Thorin a knowing chuckle of commiseration, her weather-beaten skin and windswept hair adding to the King's suspicions of her being a farmer's wife. And then he saw it...

"Here, let me carry that for you."

"Oh, that's really not necessary, Master Dwarf," said the woman, her hands twitching in surprise when they were suddenly empty. "I'm more than capable of—"

Thorin hefted the large bushel of potatoes into his arms and replied, "I would be a disgrace to my forefathers and ancestors if I allowed you to carry such a burden when in my presence. It's just not done in dwarven culture, I can assure you."

"Well, if you insist." She patted her burgeoning belly with a calloused hand. "Oh, and how rude of me! I forgot to ask if you were lost?"

"Lost, you say?"

"You wandered down this same street three times, Master Dwarf. In the culture of men, that kinda behavior usually means that a person is lost. Although our stupid menfolk are often loath to admit such a travesty to their manhood."

Thorin decided that he liked this woman; she reminded him of Dís. Of course, that also made him feel bad for her poor husband...

"Aye, I've lost my way, I fear. And misplaced my nephew."

"By Eru, that certainly isn't a good thing." She scrunched up her nose at the last statement and gave the dwarf a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "I assume you're from the northern lands since you're a dwarf. What inn are you lodged at?"

"The Saucy Matron."

She snorted and asked, "Has Missus Elori tried to pinch your bum yet?"

"The innkeeper's mother? Nay, mine has been spared so far," said the King. "However, my oldest nephew hasn't been so lucky."

"Is he a blond, perhaps?"

"Aye."

"Well, that explains it. She has a keen eye and hand for blonds. I think they remind her of the deceased mister."

"That explains a lot."

"Now, follow me this way, Master Dwarf." She tugged him gently to the left, weaving through the afternoon crowds without a problem. "I've no idea how you did it, but your inn's on the opposite side of town. _And_ the river."

"...I don't remember crossing a bridge."

"Umm, it's right over there. To your left. No, your other left. Aye, see? There it is, Master Dwarf."

"Thorin, my lady. My name's Thorin."

She laughed at that and said, "My _lady_? Goodness, if this is how you treat your womenfolk, then we certainly need more dwarves around here. No, this way, Master Thorin. That leads to the upper docks. Oh, and my name's Margrethe."

"Will this be your first little one?"

"Aye, it's been a hard winter in these parts, but the lil' one's certainly a fresh light," said Margrethe. "You mentioned nephews?"

"Three of them," said Thorin as they finished crossing the bridge. "The oldest two are almost of age, but my youngest is still far too young to be left alone for any length of time. My husband will have my beard if he finds out I left Frodo alone at the inn."

"What made you think that was a wise idea?"

Thorin flushed and murmured, "I wanted to purchase some flowers for my husband. He's, ummm, quite fond of them."

"I think we have some flowers to purchase then. C'mon, over here."

Without further ado, Margrethe dragged Thorin down a side street and they were suddenly in front of the flower shop he'd spotted yesterday, dozens of baskets littering the stands and shelves that lined the small building. It only took Margrethe a few minutes to select a beautiful assortment of daisies and tulips that Thorin instinctively knew his husband would love and fawn over. He wondered if all human women were this brilliant.

"Alright, let's get you back to that lil' nephew of yours," said Margrethe, the bright flowers sitting easily atop her hefty stomach. "I doubt your husband will be too pleased if he returns to find the poor lad alone."

"He'll rip my beard off and then beat me with it."

Margrethe shrugged. "Kinder than what I'd do to my husband if our positions were reversed. I adore my nieces and nephew."

They arrived at The Saucy Matron in less than two minutes, Margrethe moving ridiculously fast for someone who was heavy with child, which bothered Thorin since women weren't supposed to tax themselves at such a delicate time. She shooed Thorin up the stairs as soon as they entered the front foyer, grabbing the potato basket from him and placing it on a nearby table with the flowers.

"Please still be up here and in one piece," Thorin murmured to himself. " _Please_ still be up here and in one piece."

The King took the stairs two at a time, racing down the hallway like a dwarf possessed. Nothing was worse than losing or misplacing a young child, and Thorin had somehow managed to do just that _three_ times in the last year. Bilbo would give his braids to the deerhounds as chew toys if he ever found out. With that thought, Thorin whipped out his provided key, shoved it into the lock, and swung the door open to discover...

Frodo sound asleep on the bed. Bum in the air. Rupert in his arms. And a deerhound under the covers with him.

He was absolutely adorable and unharmed and perfect. 

"By Mahâl," gasped Thorin as he slid down the wall and started giggling with relief, "I'm not going to die. I'm not going to be _divorced_. Why did I ever have children? They're a menace and their fathers deserve to be tortured in the afterlife for foisting them onto me."

"Uncle Thorin?"

"Ah, so you're finally awake, mizimith."

Thorin stood up, walked over, and picked up his yawning nephew, kissing the lad atop the head and cuddling him close for a few moments. This was becoming a very bad habit and he needed to break it as soon as possible. After washing Frodo's face and brushing his unruly curls, Thorin went downstairs and found Bilbo, Sigrid, Dwalin, and the boys having luncheon with Margrethe. The latter seemed quite comfortable with them.

"So, he's a Dwarf-King? Well, _that_ was certainly never mentioned to me."

"Ah! There you are," said Bilbo, rushing over and giving his husband a giant kiss on the cheek. "Miss Margrethe was just telling us about how you helped her with those terrible rascals down the street. How awful, trying to steal from a lady with child like that."

Thorin just gaped for a moment, his nephew yawning into his shoulder, and then he looked over to said pregnant lady. She raised her teacup and gave him a discreet wink, cool as a cucumber and happily explaining her work in the fields to Sigrid and the boys. The latter two gasped in horror at the intense, back-breaking labor she was still doing while heavily pregnant. Dwalin just gave the King a knowing smirk.

Damn that dwarf.

"Aye, it's quite appalling how such fine, hard-working ladies are treated in these parts," said Thorin, his small nephew dozing in his arms again. "I fully intend to speak with the mayor about this issue, especially if they're involved in farming Erebor's food."

Bilbo looked so proud and glowy and Thorin just basked in the warmth of it.

Four days later, Margrethe's family had more gold coins and gemstones than they knew what to do with. And a barge ticket to visit Erebor and Dale in the future. Everyone wanted to see the babe, too.

Humans weren't so terrible, after all. Well, some of them...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda just wanted Thorin to get terribly lost, leave Frodo alone where he shouldn't, and interact with someone who isn't a dwarf _or_ royalty. Someone had to remind him that there are little people out there. I had to do some deep digging to find stuff on the smaller cities of Rhovanion and the Dale Lands, but Londaroth is Tolkien canon. And I still haven't decided when Bilbo's going to find out about his husband's bad habit. I'm scheming evilly, though.


	4. Misplaced in Erebor

Thorin blamed mischievous brats and snooty dragons for everything that was wrong in his life.

Aggravating barely covered the ridiculous events of the past two weeks, most of which had convinced Thorin that dwarves truly were a malevolent bane on Arda itself. First, there was the little issue of Bilbo being in Dale every day until the end of the month; he returned every four days to spend an evening and night in Erebor, but it just wasn't the same in Thorin's humble opinion. Why was the harvest so important, anyways?

Second, there was the unpleasant murders that had taken place at Erebor's annual inter-clan banquet eight days ago. Thorin and his family had been eating a lovely dinner and making trivial small talk when one of Nori's minions had practically broken down the Great Hall doors, a throwing knife flying from her hand and embedding itself in the back of an Ironfist's head. Within thirty seconds, Nori had delivered knives into three more heads, all of them slumping forward into the food and just generally causing their Consort a great deal of distress. Assassinations and vanilla pudding never went well together.

"And the meal had been so lovely," Bilbo had lamented. "Why do you always have to destroy the roast boar, Nori?"

"I can't help it that he was seated right in front of the main course," the spymaster had said as he pulled his knives out of the assassins' heads. "If Thorin didn't always give his would-be murderers seats of honor, then I wouldn't have to make such a bloody mess."

"What a terrible waste of perfectly good food."

Third, he had to take care of Frodo all by myself. Normally, this wouldn't have been such a terrible task; Thorin adored his youngest nephew and wholeheartedly agreed with Bilbo's insistence that they handle nearly all of the lad's upbringing. No nannies or governesses or paid help was allowed at any time. If Thorin or Bilbo were too busy and needed help, they simply employed their own relatives or close friends as temporary babysitters. Dís and Dori were the usual suspects, but as Thorin had quickly discovered, both the tea-connoisseur and his sister were swamped with work and guerilla warfare down in the guild halls.

Dís had returned triumphantly the other night, her knuckles red with blood and her right eye bruised black and blue. He didn't even bother to ask about what had happened; his sister was more than capable of taking care of herself.

"The Mason's Guild won't be a problem anymore," Dís had said. "But we might need to repair a few walls as well."

"Sounds like you had a lot of fun."

"It's always nice to put my right hook to good use. Poor dear's been neglected these past couple months."

However, as Thorin also soon learned, his older nephews and most of the Company were incredibly busy as well. Harvest week was always a hectic time of the year for both Erebor and Dale, but Thorin didn't recall everyone being this bogged down with work last season. Or maybe he was just frustrated by Bilbo being gone, his advisors being a bunch of needy sycophants, and Frodo wreaking havoc across a large swath of the mountain.

A small report rested in Thorin's hand, which he had planned to present to Frodo this morning. It was a thorough list of all the mishaps that the Dwarf-King's fourteen-year-old nephew and his friends had caused over the last two weeks—or at least the ones that he could remember offhand.

1\. Dropping bottles of pony poo down the laundry chutes.

2\. Provoking the badgers by throwing droplets of honey onto random dwarves.

3\. Stealing three bottles of Óin's laxative tonics.

4\. Putting Óin's tonics in a visiting Firebeard's tankard of ale.

5\. Giving royal guards ridiculous orders.

6\. Laughing when royal guards carried them out.

7\. Shooting Kíli in the bum with a blunt practice arrow.

8\. Raiding the royal kitchens of raspberries and chocolate mousse.

9\. Stealing several tubs of mining explosives from Bofur's not-so-secret stash.

10\. Breaking a window with explosive-propelled toy dragons.

11\. Claiming that you didn't know they were explosives.

12\. And then proceeding to blow up five cabbages with said explosives.

13\. Weaving flowers into Dwalin's beard.

14\. Traumatizing the goats and ponies while running away from Dwalin.

15\. Claiming everything was just an _accident_.

Thorin snuck out of the throne room when his advisors turned around, mentally cursing the life-threatening walkways that his grandfather and great-grandfathers had loonily thought were practical and safe to walk upon. He needed to locate his youngest nephew—who was supposed to be doing his lessons in the King's war room—and present his case. Unfortunately, the devious faunt had disappeared. Again.

Honestly, what had Thorin done to deserve such a stressful life?

"What do you mean you haven't seen him since this morning?!" Thorin had demanded of the royal guards. "It's your job to watch and note everyone who comes in or out of these corridors."

"I'm terribly sorry, Your Highness, but the little master hasn't been through here since first or second breakfast."

"Are you _certain_?"

"Well, I did see him with Master Nori a few hours ago," said the other guard. "But he certainly wasn't alone. I thought nothing of it."

Thorin huffed in frustration and stalked off. He'd been looking for his nephew for over three hours, inwardly cursing his complete inability to track down the faunt whenever he actually needed him. At this rate, Thorin would be short one nephew and Bilbo would be planning his demise.

Slowly. Painfully. It wouldn't be a pleasant death.

And why did _Nori_ have to be the last dwarf seen with the royal runt? Of all the dwarves in the Company, Nori was by far the most difficult to locate, especially during such a hectic time of year. He popped up at random times and spaces, flitting in and out of the royal apartments and throne room like a ghostly specter. Tracking him down was all but impossible. Not even Dwalin, who'd been pursuing the thief for decades, could predict where or when he was going to show himself.

The King preferred not to know what his spymaster got up to most of the time. It was best for the whole kingdom.

But then, something strange happened...

Just as Thorin was stomping down the eastern corridor that led to the Gallery of Kings, he heard a soft sound directly above his head. Right hand automatically reaching for Orcrist, the King was barely able to move before a familiar head popped out of the ceiling. It looked like a dust-covered starfish had just grown out of the stone, which was quite disconcerting to Thorin since he _really_ should know the exact means behind Nori's quick transportation methods. It wasn't unusual for the thief or his minions to simply pop right out of the walls or ceilings sometimes.

"I think these belong to you," said the spymaster. "They were in my spot. And that's not allowed. Naughty, naughty."

Frodo and Donel were dropped at Thorin's feet.

"They're not supposed to roam my tunnels until their twentieth and fortieth birthdays," said Nori. "That was the agreement. And it's hazardous up here. So, keep a closer eye on them."

"What agreement?"

Nori rolled his eyes. "With Bilbo, of course."

"What?"

"By Mahâl, our burglar truly _is_ the brains behind this whole operation, isn't he?"

"Nori..."

"Well, unlike some dwarves around here, I've actually a job to do," said Nori without a care towards the King's threatening tone. "Throats to slit, tankards to poison, taverns to infiltrate. It's quite the demanding position, I'll have you know. And you two! Stay out of my tunnels. No children allowed."

Frodo's eyes were rebellious. "But your minions are!"

"They don't count," said Nori with a wag of his finger. "Those lil' scamps are pure evil. And I don't have to face Bilbo's wrath if they return with a scraped knee. Now, I've got a dwarf to tail, so behave yourselves and stop giving our King gray hairs. Toodles..."

And with that, the spymaster disappeared back into the ceiling, no trace of him left behind. It was downright creepy.

Thorin turned to the faunt and dwarfling, his dark eyes severe despite their subtle appraisement of the boys' physical conditions. The last thing Thorin needed was to return either of them to Bilbo or Thana with a bunch of scratch marks all over them. But that didn't negate the need to glare at their sheepish little faces. He wasn't going to fall for their sneaky wiles today.

"Uh, we can explain..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Tolkien's canon is to be believed, Frodo was quite the prankster in his younger years. Probably a lot like Merry and Pippin, who are several years younger than him in the films. So, Frodo and Donel enjoy adding to the gray hairs that Thorin already acquired from Fíli and Kíli and the Quest for Erebor. And Nori just takes everything in stride and with a shit-eating smile. He'd totally be the fun uncle.


	5. Misplaced in the Iron Hills

Thorin needed to reevaluate his life.

Or that's what Nori had been telling him for the past four hours. All Thorin had done was turn his back for seven minutes to discuss tariffs with one of Dáin's ministers, but in that short period of time, Frodo had wandered off into the marketplace crowds. It only took a half-hour for Dwalin and Nori to come charging through Dáin's Halls, neither of them amused that their training session was interrupted by an unusually belligerent courier. Irritated by Bilbo's absence and his bodyguards' overbearing presence in recent weeks, Thorin had not-so-wisely snuck off with Frodo in tow, eyes firmly set on the Blacksmith's Guild and the potential weapons they had to offer. Fortunately, he'd found a slew of excellent weapons to purchase; unfortunately, he'd misplaced his nephew in the process.

"How could you lose him again?" demanded Nori. " _How_ do you always lose him?"

"Well, he _is_ related to Bilbo."

"Our burglar has a magic ring that allows him to turn invisible whenever he pleases," snapped the spymaster. "A fifteen-year-old? Not so much. All Frodo has is his tiny size and silent footsteps."

"That's a dangerous combination."

"You don't need to remind me," groaned the King. "And with my luck, Dáin's going to come barreling around the corner and offer his assistance again. I really don't need him to raise a search posse and for word to get back to Bilbo about it."

Dwalin stepped to the side and said, "I doubt Master Golin's wife will go squealing to him. She learned her lesson last time."

"I still don't understand how she thought that was a good idea." Nori climbed up on Dwalin's shoulders, easily swinging himself atop the market terraces. "Telling a grumbly hobbit that his husband's having an affair with her cousin? Ha! She deserved her _just_ reward."

"The badgers' loyalty is unquestionable."

"Bilbo would make an excellent minion and co-assassin," said Nori before he took off across the stall tops. "Check the stone markets! Frodo likes it there!"

"Doesn't it bother you when he does that?"

The guard captain raised an extra-bushy eyebrow. "Does what?"

"Runs off without a second thought," said Thorin. "If Bilbo did that, I'd probably be sixty feet under by my 200th birthday. And no, don't you dare comment on just how close that is now. I know where you sleep and my husband controls your cupcake privileges. I will use that to my advantage, no hesitation."

"Fucking asshole."

"Ungrateful elf-whelping bitch."

The cousins grinned at each other, customary insults relieving some of the tension that had settled on their shoulders. Frodo loved the Iron Hills' stone markets, which were much more diverse than Erebor's rather unfortunate pickings; the eastern markets and upper guild halls had been half-destroyed by Smaug's rampage through the city itself. Dori estimated that it'd take another five years to fully restore them to their former glory. So, every time they came to the Iron Hills, Frodo insisted on visiting every single vendor or stall that sold polished and engraved stones.

"Nori's quite capable of taking care of himself," answered the bigger dwarf. He was looking through the nearby halls for their lost fauntling, glaring at any dwarf who dared to get in his path. "It took me seven decades to successfully jail that Mahâl-forsaken dwarf, and that was only because he'd been stabbed so many times that he couldn't even walk anymore."

Thorin chuckled. "And then Dís broke him out."

"Your sister's a menace to society as we know it," said Dwalin as he checked another carnelian stall. "Seven fucking decades..."

"He contributed his share to the quest and filled our purses in the towns of men," Thorin reasoned. "And he stole all of those pieces from the elves as well. You have no room to slander Nori's actions anymore, either."

"I haven't slandered him in quite some time, Your Royal Prickliness."

"Aye," said Thorin with a nasty smile, "You've been too busy fucking him to care about pick-pocketing and bar brawling, haven't you?"

"Button up, you soft-faced fool."

"You really need to be more creative in your choice of fuck-places, my friend." Thorin checked around a stall that specialized in white marble and personalized bathtubs. "Both of my hobbits have stumbled upon you and I truly can't handle Bilbo's indignant blustering for a tenth time. He's scared to touch his brooms and gardening tools anymore. I'll be very displeased if this continues, cousin."

"It's not been that many times..."

"Of course, how could I have miscalculated so egregiously," Thorin drawled with a faux-serious expression. "Little Billa was hallucinating when she told me that Uncle Dwalin and Uncle Nori came tumbling out of the dining hall closet last month. You nearly squished her."

"She was on the other side of the table, if you must know."

"You crashed straight through the table and the only reason you two didn't continue humping like rabbits was because Billa tackled you," snorted the King. "She was so damn excited to finally have an opponent of great worth and muscular splendidness to do battle with. And there you were, buck naked and covered in dust. Poor Billa had such high hopes and then you ruined them. Quite the tragedy."

"Oh, I'm certain she said it _just_ like that, too."

Thorin shrugged. "There may have been some drooly cookies and an oddly shaped toy involved, but she was vocal about her disappointment."

"It's a hedgehog."

"Well, that would explain why it's so unpleasant to pick up. Bofur, I presume?"

"No. Bifur."

The King looked around a shop that specialized in granite and said, "That certainly explains the demented shape of its mouth and eyes. Kinda creepy, if you ask me."

"I reckon that applies to everything Bifur creates, although most of them sell quite—"

"Uncle Dwalin?"

Both dwarves whirled around and stared at the stall behind them. Right there, giant smile on his face, was an unharmed and unrepentant Frodo Baggins. The little hobbit had a few scuff marks on his trousers and tunic, and he kept bouncing back and forth on his feet, but other than that, Frodo looked perfectly fine to Thorin's eyes. He immediately wondered what the child had been getting up to in their absence.

"I bought a pretty stone for your beads."

Thorin's eyebrows shot up into his hairline and he turned to Dwalin with a grin. "Beads?"

"Ummm, well..."

"It's verdite," said Frodo with a proud smile. "Light green, just like Uncle Nori's eyes. And you're always mumbling about his eyes, aren't you?"

"Not that often..."

Frodo looked at the guard like he was a slow child. "I hear you do it all the time when nobody's listening, Uncle Dwalin. But see? They'll look really nice in the beads that you were making for him."

"How did you purchase this?" asked Thorin when Dwalin didn't say anything. "I didn't give you any coins."

"Aunt Dís gave me some before we left home."

"Of course."

"Here, take it. I bought two just in case you ruin one of them."

Dwalin just stared at Frodo's hand like it was a venomous snake, fingers twitching as he reached forward and took the small stones for inspection. He turned them from side to side, assessing their size and luster for the marriage beads that he'd been designing over the past few weeks. Not even Balin or Thorin had seen them, but Dwalin wouldn't be surprised if Frodo had snuck into his office or home and taken a peek at the charcoal sketches.

"They're perfect."

Apparently, that was the ideal answer because Frodo's face lit up like a Dorwinion candle. Or it did until Thorin grabbed him by the back of the shirt and fixed the child with a glare to rival all glares. Normally, Dwalin would've tried to defend the faunt, but he was a little preoccupied with the stones at that point.

"This wandering off of yours is getting old _very_ fast, mizimith."

"You lost me last time."

"We don't talk about that and you know it," said Thorin. "And don't get off topic. If you wander off one more—"

"The prodigal son returns."

All of them jumped when Nori's head suddenly appeared from above, his body suspended upside down from the roof of the stall. As usual, he had a shit-eating smile on his overbearded face. None of them noticed Dwalin tuck the verdite stones into his shirt's upper pocket.

"Would you _please_ stop doing that!"

"Nope."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin acts like a teenage boy when he's with his best friend. And here's some Dwalin/Nori for everyone who's been requesting it! A little look into their relationship and some of the development behind it. Expect more of that in the future, with a couple of the other pairings thrown in as well. Some people apparently want to see more of Billa and Bilba, so I might throw them in, too.


	6. Misplaced in Mirkwood

Thorin hated elves.

Arrogant pricks, the whole lot of them. He despised their sanctimonious attitudes, puffed up beliefs of their own lordliness, and utter inability to connect with mortals on any meaningful level; even their choice in wines was pretentious at best, something that Bofur never failed to point out during their visits to Mirkwood. Plus, their accusations of greed against the dwarves were incredibly hypocritical. Thorin remembered well the hungry gleam in Thranduil's eyes when he had gazed upon the Dwarf-King's jewels, as well as the ancient elven stories that Bilbo often told to entertain the children.

Silmarils? Kinslaying? Infanticide? Spousal abuse?

Oh, yes, the elves were a hypocritical bunch if Thorin had ever seen one. And he'd seen many in his lifetime, including himself. They weren't any better than the other races of Arda, no matter how much they argued against it.

"What do you mean you've _lost_ him?"

The brown-haired elf said, "We do have responsibilities to attend to, Master Dwarf. Watching your child is not one of them."

"He was left in your care while I spoke with your prince."

It was the blond elf who answered this time, "And we led him to the library at his request. He was instructed to remain there."

"Frodo is only fifteen-years-old," Thorin snapped. "In case that number escapes your senile brains, that means that he's ridiculously curious and will investigate anything he finds interesting without a second thought. You cannot leave him unattended for _three_ damned hours. Are you simpletons?"

"They have their moments," said a new voice, "And this is one of them."

Neither guard said a word.

"I hope you are not offended, but I could not help overhearing your conversation," said Tauriel, eyes glaring at her elven kin with disappointment "I assume you are looking for young Master Frodo?"

"That is correct."

"And you have already checked the library and kitchens? Hobbits are quite fond of food, I recall."

"No trace of him."

"Well, then we had best expand the search as soon as possible," said the she-elf. "I would normally recruit Currin's aid, but she just departed with my archers for a patrol of the northern woods. Shall we start with the upper halls? Best to keep this quiet for the moment."

"Bilbo's meeting with your king up there."

Tauriel quirked an eyebrow and said, "Perhaps we should avoid them then. Esgaron, I want you to look through the upper halls. Tirnel, you take the terraces. We will meet back here in an hour. If either of you find him, return and wait for us in the library."

"Search the lower halls and cellars," Thorin instructed his own personal guards. Dwalin was with Bilbo at the moment. "Follow her instructions."

"You will not be stopped or questioned in any of the open areas," assured Tauriel. "It is possible that Master Frodo simply wished to speak with some of our kin, for whatever reason. And try to be discreet."

After the other elves and dwarves left, Thorin said, "My nephew has an unfortunate habit of wandering off, I fear."

"I am not so ancient yet to have forgotten such proclivities and pastimes," said Tauriel. She led him to the training halls and carefully checked every nook and cranny with her superior elven eyes. "The prince and myself often slipped past our escorts in decades past. I still miss it at times."

"You're a strange elf."

"I do not know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult," laughed Tauriel. "It appears that Master Frodo's chosen another destination."

"Hobbits are masters of invisibility and escape."

"Oh, I remember that quite well," conceded the guard captain. "Your husband was right beneath our noses for several weeks and we were none the wiser. Even his escape plan was ingenious. Unconventional, but very clever."

Thorin nearly puffed up with pride. His Bilbo was a genius, no doubt about it.

"Does your nephew have any areas of interest or familiar destinations that he may favor?" Tauriel asked, checking every weapons closet they passed. "Children have a habit of hiding where they feel most comfortable. Or, at least, Legolas and myself did."

"He favors food as much as any hobbit," said Thorin. "And books. Maps. Toys. Animals. Gardening with Bilbo in—"

"Ah! We have a starting point."

The she-elf took off without a backwards glance, moving down the stairs at a speed that any dwarf would be hard-pressed to keep up with. But Thorin was no ordinary dwarf, and he was a very worried parent, so keeping pace with the guard captain wasn't too difficult. If his lungs and legs protested some of the quicker turns, well, nobody had to know about it.

"Where exactly are we going?" asked the King.

"All of the gardens are situated on the lowest and highest levels of the city," said Tauriel as she pushed open a large door. "The lower ones are along the city's edges, so we'll check those ones first."

"Is there any chance Frodo could've wandered outside of the city?"

Tauriel shook her head. "One of the guards would have stopped him. And he would not have been able to open the gates by himself."

Scouring the gardens took several minutes, and Thorin made little headway on his assigned section, but Tauriel returned before too long and informed him that Frodo had not been spotted by the gardeners and she couldn't find any faunt-sized tracks, either. They departed after that, ascending the steep staircases again to return to the uppermost levels of the city.

And then Thorin spotted it.

"Wait!"

The King walked over to nearby balcony and gazed down at the large enclosures next to the mushroom gardens. The putrid scent wafting up to his nose was all too familiar; his husband and sister often smelled of it. Any dwarf would recognize it.

"Where are your stables?"

Tauriel pointed at a sharp corner near the garden's edge and said, "Directly across from the fungal patches and along the river's edge. It allows for easy access to water and manure, which we use to fertilize and cultivate the mushrooms."

"My nephew loves horses and any other farm animal you can think of," Thorin murmured. "If Frodo thought he could get close..."

"Perhaps we should check then?"

As usual, Thorin's nose protested at the awful smell of horse shit, his eyes watering at the gut-churning stench that Bilbo and Frodo never seemed to have any trouble being and working around. Hobbits were an agrarian folk and raised numerous different types of farm animals, as Bilbo always loved to point out. This, of course, meant that Bilbo and Frodo could walk though an entire stable or garden full of animal shit without batting an eyelash. It was quite frustrating.

"I will check the larger horse stable," said Tauriel, "If you look through the goat and pig pens. They are over there."

Thorin entered the wooden structure with a wrinkled nose and mumbled, "I swear, I'm going to strangle that boy when I find him. All of this grey hair is his fault. And those awful cousins of his. No respect whatsoever."

A swarm of pigs were oinking and grunting in several large pens, their monstrous heads trying to squeeze between the fences so that they could poke at Thorin with their wet snouts. Most of them were covered in dirt and other suspiciously brown...stuff, all of which Thorin preferred not to think about. Empty troughs of food, slop, and golden hay were tied along the sides, a few of the pigs' heads still buried within them. Thorin had encountered his fair share of farm animals while living and passing through the towns and cities of men, but their behaviors would always remain a mystery to him.

His hobbits and Bifur adored them, though.

"What I don't go through for pointy-eared butterballs," grumbled the King. "Utterly impossible, the whole lot of them."

Then he heard it...

"Now, you will want to put your hand right here and gently rub the cloth along her belly," said an unfamiliar voice from a nearby stall. "They are very vulnerable to sickness at this age, so the umbilical cord must be partially removed and the remaining skin doused in a cleansing lotion."

"Like this?"

"Yes, exactly like that, pen tithen. Do not forget the herbs, either."

It only took a moment for Thorin to march down the aisle and glare at the figures kneeling in the pig pen. However, it wasn't a sight the Dwarf-King had been expecting. And he made this known with the croak that came out of his gaping mouth. Not very dignified, but he could be excused for that at the moment.

"Oh, Thorin! Did your meeting with Legolas end well?"

The King just stood there and continued to gape like a fish, slowly saying, "What the...ummm, but you're not..."

"Negotiations finished early," said Bilbo with a smile. He didn't seem phased at all by the blood and poo on his hands. "I found Frodo in the library with the stable master after that and she offered for us to assist with the farrowing of some piglets. It's quite delightful."

"Hello, Master Bilbo."

"Ah! Tauriel, I'm so pleased to see you."

"I was just assisting your husband in locating you," said the she-elf with a knowing smile. "The princes and Currin have warned me about the jerks. It certainly sounds quite distressing."

"Dreadful problem. His directional sense above ground is atrocious!"

"I can imagine."

"He loses track of himself all the time," lamented the hobbit. "I'm always worried that he'll wander up a tree or down a ravine or something equally ridiculous."

"Look, Uncle Bilbo! It's a boy."

Thorin just stared at all of them. Even Dwalin was standing near the far side of the pen, watchful eyes observing the elf-maid's every move around the hobbits and birthing sow. Tauriel continued to speak with Bilbo, easily covering up for Thorin's earlier misplacement of his youngest nephew. He wondered if all elves were this good at lying and sweeping away their own tracks. It wouldn't surprise Thorin if it was one of their talents. Elves were a tricky bunch at the best of times.

A moment later, the King's nephew gave a little cheer when the next piglet was properly cared and accounted for, his smile as wide as Thorin had ever seen it. Nothing delighted Frodo more than a friendly animal or potential pet. It was also the main reason why they had four dogs and three cats living in the royal apartments. And a couple of nosy ravens, too.

"Frodo loves tending to animals. The lad's mother was raised on a large..."

His husband and nephew had been down here the _whole_ time. Perhaps even before the conclusion of Thorin's meeting.

"Mahâl hates me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may enjoy torturing Thorin just a _little_ too much. The _jerks_ is a term often used in geography to refer to someone with a horrible sense of direction. They jerk around and walk in all different directions without even realizing it. I'm pretty sure my mother has it. And I really like Tauriel, she's a strong female character who can take care of and think for herself. I couldn't resist using her here.
> 
> And would you look at that, Thorin's being somewhat civil. Awwww...


	7. Misplaced in Beorn's Home

Thorin was in desperate need of a tall pint of Bofur's secret brew.

For his youngest nephew's 20th birthday, the King Under the Mountain had agreed to accompany Bilbo, Frodo, and their royal entourage to the Shire. It would be the second time his hobbits had visited their homeland since moving to Erebor over twelve years ago, both of them eager to visit relatives and friends who had been writing increasingly blunt letters in recent months. Eglantine Took seemed to be the head conspirator behind the whole letter-writing campaign, several of them even being addressed to Fíli, Kíli, Balin, Dís, and Thorin himself. It was obvious that Bilbo's cousins were a force to be reckoned with, especially the ladies. And in her usual good humor, Dís found the situation to be utterly hilarious and offered to steward the kingdom in Thorin's stead.

Evil witch, his sister was. And that was probably why she'd sent the brats along as well.

"I think Kíli's sick."

"What did he do this time?"

"Ate an entire batch of Beorn's honeycakes," said Dwalin. "And then four combs of plain ol' honey, too."

"He's not sleeping near me tonight."

The King continued to wander around Beorn's inner fields, eyes carefully surveying the various animals and honeybees that meandered in and out of the bushes. A small pack of dogs were laying nearby, their ears and tails lax with sleep as they bathed in the afternoon sun. Spring had only just begun to roll over the eastern hills and forests, so an entire day of warm sunshine was much welcomed by everyone who called the northern valleys and riverlands home. Thorin would've been enjoying it himself if he hadn't had a little problem on his hands.

"What are you so uptight about?"

Thorin pinched at his nose and asked, "Have you seen Frodo anywhere?"

"Don't tell me you've lost him _again_."

"I didn't do it on purpose," snapped the King. "I told him to sit on that rock over there while I went inside for a few minutes. When I came back out with the honeycakes and lemonade, poof! He was gone."

Dwalin scoffed and said, "I'm not protecting your pimply hide this time."

"I haven't had those in over a century."

"Well, I'm not forgetting them any time soon," said Dwalin with a shudder. "And we all know that you got those inkings to cover up the marks."

"You do realize that I know where you sleep."

"Good luck getting past Nori. He's a paranoid bastard with more knives than you can count. Cuddles 'em more than me."

"I'm not above bribery," said Thorin as he attempted to look through a bunch of bushes. Frodo tended to end up in the oddest places. "Now, would you stop your lollygagging and help me find that ungrateful lil' runt."

The larger dwarf sighed in frustration. "How on Arda do you keep losing him? Isn't it against the parental code or handbook or something?"

"He's like a nightcrawler. Always slipping out of my fingers."

"If Bilbo hears you compare the lad to a slimy worm," stated Dwalin as he checked around a nearby shed, "He'll slash your braids clean off. All vicious and cruel and with no regard for dwarven finery."

"No," said Thorin, his eyes scouring the pony and goat fields, "He'll chop my dwarfhood into pieces. And then divorce me."

"An accurate conclusion."

Both Thorin and Dwalin froze like deer in the firelight, their backs ramrod straight and their hands clammy with fear. A small shadow was cast between them, its posture and size all too familiar to their darting eyes. Dwalin was the first to turn around, broad shoulders slumping at the terrifying sight before him. The Dwarf-King knew that his best friend wouldn't—

"It was him."

And evidently, he was very wrong, too.

"Gelek menu caragu rukhs!" Thorin barreled into the larger dwarf and attempted to strangle him. "No good traitor! I'll rip your beard—"

"I'm not taking the fall for you!"

"All these years of blood, sweat, and nighttime indigestion, and you just rat me out to someone half your size!"

"You fart just as badly! Don't even try to deny it!"

Thorin wrestled him into a headlock and shouted, "I'll have your braids for that, rukhsul menu!"

"By the Green Lady..."

Small hands grabbed a hold of their beards, viciously pulling them apart and then stomping on their butts until they stopped attempting to strangle one another. Thorin was the first to roll over and meet Bilbo's death-filled glare, the hobbit's hands planted on his hips while his left foot tapped up and down with impatience. Dwalin didn't even try to hide from Bilbo's wrath, his inked head lowered in resignation.

"Where is Frodo?"

"Ugh..."

"And don't you dare lie to me, Thorin Oakenshield. I know all of your tells and that left eye twitch is a dead giveaway."

"I told you."

"Don't think you're safe, ink-butt." Bilbo's finger connected with Dwalin's big nose. "Whenever Thorin does something stupid, you're usually involved, too. And people wonder where Fíli and Kíli get it from!"

"There's no need to—"

"Nope, don't even try it. You've got five seconds to tell me where Frodo is, or else I'll be—"

"I lost him."

Bilbo scrunched up his face and said, "You...lost him?"

"Aye."

"For how long now?"

"It hasn't been that long," said Thorin. "Just about a half-hour, I think."

"You think?"

Neither dwarf said anything, their eyes carefully watching Bilbo's facial expressions. The last thing they wanted was for their beards to be taken hostage again. Bilbo didn't have much sympathy for body hair if it wasn't attached to one's head or feet. Hobbits were vicious creatures in that regard. Their hairlessness gave them a dangerous and unusual advantage over dwarves, at least when it came to the dreadful issue of hair pulling.

"And I assume this isn't the first time you've _lost_ him?"

"Oh..."

"That wasn't the response I was looking for, Thorin."

"You heard that?"

"It was kinda hard not to," snapped the hobbit. "Dwalin has a big mouth when he's stressed or hungry."

"He stopped counting a while ago."

Bilbo scrubbed a hand over his face and unleashed a frustrated groan, purposely ignoring the incessant bickering and glaring and punching that was taking place at his feet. He would've walloped them both on the head, but Bilbo had learned long ago that such measures rarely worked on dwarves. His husband's people had hard heads and thick brains and a hobbit's fist couldn't do much to stop their stupidity from flaring up. It was an exhausting affair.

"I'll deal with you later."

The King cringed and said, "We were looking for him. I'd told him to stay put on the rock."

"Oh yes, that's worked _so_ well before."

As Bilbo marched off towards the right, Thorin and Dwalin struggled to keep up, neither of them wanting to get too close to the irate hobbit. It only took a couple minutes for them to reach the small stream that fed into Beorn's southern fields and the pond that bordered them, eyes widening when they saw several figures moving across and above the shallow waters.

"Frodo! You get down from that tree this instant!"

"But I was just—"

"No! When I told you it was alright to accompany Currin to the pond," snapped Bilbo, "That did _not_ mean that you had permission to climb and dangle about from trees like a Took on mushrooms!"

"Kíli said I could!"

And with that, Bilbo's attention was diverted to their middle nephew, who was currently being flung through the air between Currin and her cousins, arms and legs flailing like some kind of distorted octopus. Beorn was sitting in the water directly beneath Frodo's branch, gold eyes trained on the foolhardy child who had decided to wander off yet again.

They _really_ needed to put a bell on him.

"I'm surrounded by immature idiots," lamented Bilbo. "Why do the Valar hate me? Why?"

"Look what I can do, Uncle Bilbo!"

Frodo jumped off the branch, slid down Beorn's angled and slippery back, and went straight into the water with a gleeful whoop of excitement. It only took a few seconds for the enormous skin-changer to fish him out of the pond, Frodo giggling and clapping with triumph the entire time, his tiny form dressed in nothing but his smallclothes. Thorin tried to back away while the getting was good, but a small hand suddenly appeared out of nowhere and grabbed his beard.

"And where do you think _you're_ going?"

"Umm..."

"You're on your own for this one," said Dwalin as he ran into the woods. "I'm not endangering my cupcake privileges again."

"Traitor."

Bilbo tugged on his beard and hissed, "You've got a lot of explaining to do, darling."

"I hate my life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Bilbo has finally discovered Thorin's worst habit! I'm a mean, terrible person and I'm not sorry in the least. Also, I'm sorry if it takes me a while to respond to PMs and comments; my access to reliable Wi-Fi is suspect at best and viral research is my top priority right now. Gelek menu caragu rukhs = you smell like orc dung/shit, or the dwarven equivalent of bullshit. Rukhsul menu = son/daughter of an orc.


	8. Misplaced in the Misty Mountains

Bilbo Baggins was a vindictive and venomous creature when he put his mind to it.

For the past eight days, Thorin had been subjected to the most acidic of his hobbit-y husband's glares. All it had taken was a few well-placed threats for Dwalin and his own nephews to spill their guts; when it came to the Company and royal family, Bilbo was the true power behind the throne and everybody knew it. The dwarves had become too accustomed to eating Bilbo's food, listening to his tales, and receiving his well-thought gifts to jeopardize being in his good books. And because of this, Thorin was thrown to the wolves when his habit of misplacing Frodo came to light.

Not that the _actual_ wolves tried to defend him, either. They mostly just laughed at his inability to scent or hear his own pup wandering off, because that was apparently an essential part of parenting in their culture. Uncouth fleabags.

"Is there a specific design or pattern that you wish to have upon your tomb?"

"Why do I even keep you around?"

"Because someone needs to keep your head attached to your shoulders," said Dwalin. "It's an exhausting and thankless job, I'll have you know."

"I can safely say that smelling your stench every day isn't very appealing, either."

"Gah! Bite me, you hairy sausage."

"I would," drawled Thorin, "But then my teeth would fall out from the festering lump that is your hair-covered ass."

"The hobbit's glaring at you."

Lo and behold, the baldest and crudest of Thorin's companions was right. Hazel eyes were watching the Dwarf-King with an unpleasant amount of annoyance, far more than the usual amount that Thorin was subjected to when he did something stupid or anti-elven. Bilbo had been keeping their youngest nephew on a very tight leash since he had discovered Thorin's secret over one week ago, poor Frodo being confined to a bedroll and pony with his hobbit uncle whenever it was possible. And much to Thorin's chagrin, Kíli had been his assigned bedmate for just as long, too.

He had forgotten how terribly clingy his middle nephew was while sleeping. No wonder him and Frodo got along so well.

"I think he aims to set you afire."

Thorin scowled. "Or chop off my jewels when I'm least expecting it. Both outcomes are likely at this point."

"You hid it longer than I thought you would, to be truthful."

"And now I have the wrath of an overprotective hobbit raining down upon my head." The King snorted when his husband pointed a threatening finger at him. " _Exactly_ how I wanted this journey to go, I tell you."

"Well, look on the bright side," snickered Dwalin, "At least he hasn't tried to throw you off a cliff yet, eh?"

"It'd be an ironic vengeance, that's for certain."

"Poetic justice."

"Don't make me kick you off that cliff over there."

They stopped for the evening along a wide-open pass, two of its sides lined by high precipices and towering evergreens that would make for excellent lookout points. Thanks to the Battle of the Five Armies, goblins and orcs had become scarce in the central reaches of the Misty Mountains, most of them confined to Mount Gundabad and the farthest peaks of the north. Moria was still avoided like the plague, of course. To be honest, Thorin wanted absolutely nothing to do with that place; a stench seemed to waft up from the mountains' depths, the decay and blight of Khazad-dûm coming up with it.

"We'll get the firewood," announced Frodo. "C'mon, Uncle Thorin."

"But I didn't—"

"I saw some really good ones over here. Stop catching flies!"

Thorin allowed himself to be pulled along by the little hobbit, purposely ignoring the snickers that came from Dwalin and several of their guardsmen. Gathering firewood was usually delegated to the most green and grubby of their escorts, so it had to be amusing for the other dwarves to see their King picking up sticks like a know-nothing attendant. He hadn't performed such menial tasks in nearly a decade, which probably explained why his nephews and husband were watching him depart with raised eyebrows. It truly wasn't fair that Fíli and Kíli had picked up that trait from Bilbo.

"You have to save me, Uncle Thorin," said the faunt once they were out of ear-range. "Uncle Bilbo's gone barmy. I can't escape him."

"That makes two of us."

Frodo scowled and said, "He only lectures and glares at you. I'm the one getting coddled like a newborn babe. I'll be weeding the garden for weeks while we're at Bag End. And then I'll be doing it back home again, too."

"At least you weren't interrogated like a common thief."

"Uncle Nori would be offended." Frodo poked him in the side with a stick. "He'd never get caught like you did. Too sneaky for it."

"That is very reassuring, mizimith."

It only took a few minutes for them to gather sizeable armfuls of dried sticks and small logs that would serve them well throughout the evening. Frodo stayed close the whole time, casting the occasional glance to see if Bilbo was watching their progress and physical proximity. Explaining all the misplacements had been painful and Thorin really did not want to relive that fiasco. His eardrums and pride still ached, to be truthful.

"Well, I think we've got enough to..."

Thorin stared at the pile of sticks beside him. Honestly, _how_ was this even possible? What _was_ his life becoming?

"Frodo?"

After turning around in a full circle, the King deliberated whether to look around the nearby trees or just throw himself off the cliff. Honestly, no one else seemed to have this problem with his youngest nephew, so why not solve a whole bunch of headaches with a quick and straightforward solution? Thorin really needed to invest in a good, sturdy leash and strap it to the boy's neck. But with his luck, that probably wouldn't work, either.

"I swear, Frodo, if you don't get your—"

And then a familiar face was suddenly dangling and grinning right in front of his nose, dark curls swaying back and forth as the little boy hung upside down from the branch of a scraggly oak tree right above Thorin's head.

"By Mahâl, Frodo!" growled the King. "I could've chopped your head off!"

"Scared you, didn't I?"

It was at that moment Thorin realized that _not_ reproducing was the best decision of his life. His nephews were already on their way to putting him into an early grave, so why add yet another hellion to it? The grey dashes through his black hair would only become more pronounced in the coming years, all of it thanks to the evil demons that were Fíli, Kíli, and Frodo. He feared for his sanity at this point.

"You've been spending entirely too much time with your cousins."

Frodo giggled in delight at the accusation and said, "You can blame them then. And I think my foot's stuck on the—"

"Get down!"

The Dwarf-King had barely grabbed Frodo and dropped to the ground before a massive figure was careening overtop of him. Snarls sounded from directly behind their current position, a pair of rippling bodies twisting throughout the trees before several others joined them. Keeping Frodo tucked in close to his chest, Thorin rolled to the side and hid along the opposite edge of an elm tree, Orcrist unsheathed to provide his nephew with some semblance of protection, no matter how meager. A series yelps and gurgles and howls was the last thing he heard before silence stretched over the mountain pass again.

"It's dead."

Just to Thorin's right stood the half-shifted form of Currin, blood dripping from toothy jowls while her cousins and brother dragged the mangled carcass of a warg over to the campsite. Dwalin stood over another wretched corpse, Grasper shoved deep into the creature's skull while another warg was littered with arrows, its throat ripped out by one of the badger sisters. But they weren't who Thorin was looking for...

"Are you alright?"

It only took a few moments for Thorin to reach his husband, although he was unable to touch the hobbit since his hands were full of frightened faunt and elven metal. Fíli had his own arm around Bilbo's shoulders, having physically placed himself between his smaller uncle and the attacking wargs. Bilbo looked none too happy about it, too.

"By the Green Lady," snapped the hobbit, "I've told you to stop doing that!"

"You know why I did it."

"Aye, I do, and it's completely unnecessary. I've fought off plenty of wargs in my lifetime, in case you've forgotten, my boy."

"Technically, I'm older than you."

"Yet I outrank you by decades in mental and overall maturity." Bilbo poked their oldest nephew in the chest, looking far too much like Dís for any of the Durins' liking. "And I'm the uncle here, not you."

"You've got a letter-opener."

"And it's sliced through many warg skulls before," said Bilbo with exasperation. "Gondolin-made, remember?"

"Don't remind me."

Thorin handed the faunt to Fíli when he walked over to examine the corpses, stopping momentarily to give Bilbo a quick kiss and relieved hug, arms engulfing his husband's smaller form. Despite their earlier arguments, Bilbo didn't hesitate to hug him back, curly head digging into the thick fur of Thorin's surcoat and beard with abandon. The sudden appearance of the wargs had shocked them all, including the skin-changers.

"Are you alright?" Thorin asked again. "We didn't even hear or smell them coming."

"I think they came out of the ground," said Bilbo, his voice only the slightest bit shaky with adrenaline. "None the skin-changers sensed them, if their reactions are any kind of reliable indication."

"We're right above Khazad-dûm."

They all looked over at Dwalin and the King asked, "Are you sure?"

"Aye," said Dwalin with a dark frown, "I've seen my brother's maps and heard him speak about it enough to know. Those holes over there lead down to the upper halls. Stale air, I reckon. That's why the furballs didn't smell them."

"We should move on immediately then," said Bilbo. "I'll help pack up the camp and tend the ponies."

"I can't believe I didn't recognize the terrain."

Thorin gave his cousin's shoulder a firm squeeze and said, "The mountains change as Mahâl wills them. And Balin's maps are very old now. Remember our encounter with the stone giants, eh?"

"Let's just get out of this accursed place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry about the late updates! The virology labs are literally taking over my life right now. And look, Thorin's getting a little better at not misplacing Frodo! He only made it up a tree this time. Quite the improvement, right?


	9. Misplaced in the Shire

The Shire had not changed at all since Thorin and his Company last visited it.

A merry band of dwarves and skin-changers and two hobbits had drawn the attention of everyone within a five-mile radius, countless pairs of eyes and gossiping mouths and wagging tongues following their every step towards Bagshot Row. His husband had shifted back into Baggins-mode without too much difficulty, waving and nodding and very politely greeting every mister and missus and faunt they came across, easily remembering the first and last name of every relative, friend, or neighbor that walked by or just glared at them. It was an astounding display of memory, without a doubt.

"I think Bell Gamgee's quite taken with you," said Bilbo later that night. "It must be the flowy hair and broad shoulders. They're very appealing."

"My feet are hanging off the bed, ghivashel."

"Sadly, it would seem that hobbit beds weren't designed for someone of your frame."

"Are you calling me fat?"

Bilbo laughed at that. "I believe such an accusation from a hobbit would be rather hypocritical, don't you think?"

"Very much so."

The King poked at his husband's plump belly in response, slowly coaxing him into an agreeable mood through soft touches and dwarven flattery. The latter was touch and go at the best of times, but Bilbo was especially cheerful that evening and Thorin was willing to take full advantage of it. Being quiet in a houseful of dwarves and hobbits was a mean feat, but they managed to pull it off. Somehow...

"Good morning. Have a nice _sleep_?"

Or maybe not so much, if Missus Gamgee's raised eyebrow and saucy smirk was to be believed. By Mahâl, hobbits were truly shameless creatures when they felt that their reputation wouldn't be impugned upon. And the females seemed to be the worst of them.

"I've got a shopping list over two miles long," lamented Bilbo over breakfast. "You dwarves are like bottomless pits. And with the youngsters..."

"There's so many of them."

Bilbo snorted. "Compared to some of my other relatives, Hamfast's brood is quite small. He'll have six with the newest babe, which is about average for most hobbit families. And they've got plenty of room between Bag End and their old home to accommodate several more if they wish it."

"I've nearly stepped on that one a half-dozen times so far."

"Daisy's quite boisterous. I think she may have a little fancy for Frodo as well," said Bilbo with an amused smile. "C'mon, I'd like to finish my grocery shopping before your kin eat mine out of house, home, and garden. Fetch the boys, would you?"

"They'll be thrilled..."

And they most definitely were, as Thorin's eardrums learned within the next two hours. Fíli and Kíli could be incredibly nosy when they put their minds to it, and it turned out that everything in the Shire fascinated them. The King attempted to keep them under control, but after the fourth terrified vendor, Thorin decided to just leave them to Bilbo to deal with. He was quite gifted at scaring the wrath of the Valar into their nephews when the situation called for it.

"Could you pick up the broken chair from the carpenter?" asked Bilbo a few minutes later. "His name's Ludo Proudfoot. You'll find his house and shop just up that road over there. It has the bright red door and all of the petunias in front of it."

"Ummm, what color petunias?"

"Every color, I'd expect," said the distracted hobbit. "And take Frodo with you. Fíli and Kíli are handfuls enough as it is."

And so, Thorin set off along a nearby road that connected directly to Hobbiton's marketplace, halflings bustling about in the morning sun while also giving the kingly dwarf a furtive glance or two as he walked by their shopping carts and stalls. Frodo nibbled on the cookies that Bilbo had purchased from a batch of blond-haired hobbits with the name of Bolger, his small shadow tottering to Thorin's right side as the older dwarf weaved through a crowd of fidgety Shirelings. He genuinely wondered if they would faint should he attempt to speak with them.

"Most twitchy creatures I've ever seen in my life."

"I'm out of cookies," lamented Frodo. "And they just think you're big and hairy and scary. Grrrr!"

"Perhaps I should introduce them to Dwalin."

"Or Currin."

Thorin snorted. "I doubt they'd be able to hold their water if she so much as whimpered at them."

"Currin doesn't whimper."

"Well, it seems we have a wee problem then."

"Lots of fainting hobbits."

"Aye."

They continued on up the narrow road, uncle and nephew ignoring all of the bewildered stares that were sent their way. Frodo would occasionally wave to a hobbit that either recognized him or the other way around, although most of them had simply heard of his and Bilbo's arrival and correctly guessed who the unfamiliar faunt belonged to. Thorin's presence probably had something to do with it as well, but the dwarf preferred to keep quiet during these encounters and allow Frodo to mingle with his kinfolk. Besides, some truly _did_ look like they would faint if he took one step closer to them.

"By Mahâl," groaned the King thirty minutes later. "And I thought dwarves were nosy."

"I don't remember any of them."

"They certainly seem to remember you. Or they at least claim to."

A butterfly landed on Thorin's nose a moment later, flitting and fluttering and causing the King to unleash a sneeze that Smaug would've been proud of. He glared at the big, bright, and colorful fields with disdain, quietly cursing the infernal dust that seemed to saturate the aboveground world like a Valar-driven plague. Endless swaths of flowers and tall grasses and trees surrounded him on all sides, their floral greenness seeming to laugh at the Dwarf-King and his watery eyes and sniffly nose. It was disgraceful and he had the sudden urge to stomp on the next flowerbed to cross his path.

"Uncle Thorin?"

"Aye?"

"I think you've misplaced yourself again."

"What?"

Thorin turned around in a full circle and realized that they were quite literally surrounded by fields, only a handful of smials visible up and down the dirt road that they'd been walking along for quite some time now. His nephew looked equally bemused and sheepish, the lad's cheeks red with embarrassment when he realized that neither of them had been paying much attention to the direction or road signs; all of their awareness had been focused on the numerous hobbits who ambushed them along the way to Ludo Proudfoot's home.

"Not again."

"I don't remember this part of Hobbiton," Frodo admitted. "And I don't see Bagshot Row, either."

"This place is cursed."

"Or you've just got a terminal case of the jerks."

After carefully reading the nearest road signs, Frodo took his uncle's hand and turned to the left, small feet padding down the hill and back towards the quiet echo of clanging and banging in the distance. Thorin attempted to give some input when they came to the next intersection, but Frodo slapped the dwarf on his wrist and told him not to move while _he_ examined the four-way sign.

"Just stand there, Uncle Thorin. Don't even look at it."

"I'm not _that_ terrible."

Frodo laughed in disbelief. "You lose your way in Bard's home. And we've stayed there at least two dozen times."

"The hallways are tricky."

"You ended up in the basement. And then in the courtyard."

"It was a lovely day."

The faunt rolled his eyes and said, "Whatever helps you sleep at night. But I'm getting hungry and wanna go home before dark."

"And I assume you're Bilbo's dwarf, right?"

Uncle and nephew whirled around to face the unfamiliar voice, Thorin instinctively pushing Frodo behind him until he could assess the situation. As it turned out, all that stood before them was a very pregnant hobbit with blond curls, green eyes, and a highly amused smile on her freckled face. For a moment, Thorin wondered if he'd been presented with a female version of his husband.

"A little tongue-tied, are you? Well, Bilbo mentioned that you lot can be rather dense at times."

"Excuse me?"

"Terribly sorry," said the woman without a hint of remorse. "My manners are rather lacking by hobbit standards, as you can see. I'm Eglantine Took, Bilbo's cousin. On both sides, if you must know. Paternal second-cousin, maternal third-cousin. It's tricky business."

"I see."

"And you must be lost. Bilbo mentioned in his letters that you have something called the jerks. How very strange." Eglantine came forward and poked at Thorin's head, not in the least bit intimidated by his dwarven heritage or the weapons strapped to his side. "We'd best be getting back to Bag End before my cousin has a cow. Now come along, I was just going there myself."

"Should we follow her?"

Frodo looked at his uncle like he was nuts. "I don't know. She's my aunt, so I don't think she'll try to eat us."

"That's trolls, mizimith."

"You shouldn't put anything past a hobbit's appetite, Uncle Thorin. Especially a round one like her."

"I heard that!"

Thorin's cousin-in-law—and honestly, how many were there?!— jabbered the entire way back to Bag End, her hands flailing about as she described how Pearl and Pimpernel had eaten all of her apple pies earlier that week. Frodo had no problem speaking with his aunt, happily comparing stories about his cousins, hobbit and dwarf alike, as they neared the Bywater. It was late afternoon when they finally arrived at Bag End.

Bilbo was waiting outside.

"You got lost again, didn't you?" said Bilbo with an amused sigh. "And hello, Eglantine! By the Green Lady, you're positively glowing."

"This hairy wart needs a _Return to Bilbo Baggins_ sign attached to him."

"I've considered it."

"Well, you might want to implement it."

And with that said, Eglantine took Frodo's hand and marched into the house, loud voice shouting at the Gamgee children for hugs while also asking who these outstandingly handsome young lads are. Fíli and Kíli and Dwalin would be falling over themselves to assist her, as any good dwarf would for a pregnant lady. Thorin raised an eyebrow at his grinning husband.

"I think she likes you."

"Joy."

"And you have a lovely sign on your back."

"Ugh..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done! I've been so busy lately that I don't really know which way I'm coming or going, so finishing this story will be a big relief, especially since I feel terrible for how infrequent my updates have become. I might be scaling back _Bad Habits_ as well, but I'm still on the fence about it. Would you guys prefer for me to cut _Bad Habits_ back to 10 chapters (or 50 bad habits) and increase the chance of one-shots or just leave it the way it is?
> 
> And yes, Eglantine is pregnant with Pippin, in case anyone recognized the name.


	10. Misplaced in Middle-Earth

Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and direct descendent of Durin the Deathless himself, was completely helpless to protect his youngest nephew.

For seven long months, Frodo Baggins and the Fellowship of the Ring had been forging a treacherous path towards the ashen fields of Mordor, their sole intent being the final destruction of the One Ring within Mount Doom's fiery depths. For every second of every day since the Ringwraiths' arrival at Erebor's gates, a terrible and haunting fear had been eating at Thorin's guts, his sleep interrupted by nightmares that would make any warrior tremble and quake in their panic-stricken boots. Even with Fíli and Kíli and Dís at his side, the night terrors continued without delay and resulted in the Dwarf-King becoming irritable and short-tempered and frustrated with almost every dwarf, skin-changer, or man that crossed his path.

And that didn't even begin to cover Thorin's anger with their elven neighbors.

The arrival of Bilbo only lifted a small weight from the King's shoulders, his husband's weary yet loving presence acting as a warm balm to the aching pit in Thorin's stomach. He had heard many stories about the pain that came from losing a child, the empty void and hopelessness that consumed every moment of the parent's life thereafter, their main source of joy and triumph and humor and pride snatched from the world. It had nearly happened all those years ago with Fíli and Kíli, their wounds so grievous that not even Thranduil had been certain of their fate. However, unlike those delicate days when his nephews' young lives had hung in the balance, Thorin was completely awake and coherent and unharmed now, his mind churning with terrible imaginings about horrible things could befall his smallest child.

"You need to sit down and rest, darling."

"We have to prepare the battlements and lower halls for combat by the end of the week," said Thorin, fingers skimming over the schematics that Dwina and Bofur had left for him. "Our scouts have already spotted the Easterling army. And Mother Nymeria's been on edge for more than a fortnight."

"And a few hours of rest won't change a thing, you great galoot."

"I don't need to—"

"Oh yes, you do. Now come over here and keep me company."

"So horribly bossy."

"Just get your hairy behind outside and sit down," snapped Bilbo, impatiently patting the spot beside him. "The garden's finally in full bloom and I'd like to have someone to gloat about it with. At least for a little while..."

Thorin sighed. "Of course, ghivashel."

With a creak of his world-weary bones, the Dwarf-King climbed onto the large and heavily cushioned lounge that Bifur had crafted for Bilbo's 70th birthday, hands reaching out to maneuver and cuddle the smaller royal close to his chest. Bilbo released a purr of contentment, happily munching on the gigantic carrot that he had pulled from the ground five or so minutes ago. It barely fit in his gnarled fingers, but Bilbo was nothing if not persevering and persistent, chomping away at the large, orange sprout like it had offended him in a past life.

"I assume that you're pleased with the vegetable growth," said Thorin. "And the new pear tree that I managed to scrounge up in Dale last year."

"Already started fruiting. I think I'll make some juice for..."

Pears were their youngest nephew's favorite fruit. He should've known better than to mention it.

"We can use the apples instead, umzam."

Bilbo went silent after that, his arthritic fingers clutching at Thorin's like they were a lifeline. And maybe they were, considering where that sentence was undoubtedly going to end. Despite his faux-cheerful mood, Bilbo had been just as on-edge as the King, puttering back and forth in Frodo's bedchambers most evenings, sitting down every couple minutes to rest his aching knees. Thorin had even found Bilbo curled up in Frodo's bed once, the patchy and discolored form of Rupert clutched right under his nose. Dís had made sure that the beloved stuffed bear had not fallen apart over the decades.

It still smelled like Frodo, his husband had said.

"Why did I allow him to return to the Shire alone?" Bilbo whispered a few minutes later. "Rivendell's library isn't so grand that it'd take precedent over him. I don't know why such a separation seemed wise at the time. If I could just—"

"Hush, ghivashel. You couldn't have known about the Ring at that time, nor any other in the past."

"All of our accomplishments and victories," said Bilbo, "Were enabled by that accursed Ring and the invisibility it gave me. Smaug knew about it, you know? He called it the _precious_ just like that terrible creature in the goblin tunnels."

"Dragon-fire could have destroyed it."

"No, it wouldn't. I said the same at Elrond's Council, but Gandalf claims that not even Ancalagon's breath could undue the One Ring. Perhaps the other nineteen, which has apparently happened before, but not the One. Only Mount Doom can perform such a lofty feat."

Thorin snorted. "Then Smaug was even more worthless than I'd imagined."

"I should've known back then that there was something strange about it." Bilbo shook his head in frustration, fingers now twisting in the King's rapidly greying beard. "How could a trinket that makes someone invisible be completely benign? I was a fool."

"All of us were fools, ghivashel."

"Primula would be horrified by what I've allowed to become of her darling babe. By Yavanna, we don't even know where he's at anymore!"

"We have to trust in Gimli and that bloody spawn of—"

"Grandpa?"

Both royals turned to their right side, heads tilting to observe the small figure that was peeking around the garden doorway. With a wide smile, the boy bounded over to their lounge, clawed hands and dark curls streaked yet again with dirt and soot that Bilbo had attempted to clean earlier in the morning. Unfortunately, such habits were difficult to enforce upon their youngest grandnieces and nephew.

"A package arrived for you from Taräk. I think it's from Mama and Aunt Tauriel."

"I've been waiting on word from her," said Thorin, hands undoing the mangled-looking parcel. "What have I told you about reading my missives, Callum?"

"Mama's handwriting looks angry on the front."

"And that's still not a good reason to read through my official documents," scolded the King, his voice weary from long experience. "Do I need to set you with archery duty again? Your father's always in need of new arrows."

"Does it say anything about the Elven-King?" asked Callum. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet now. "Or Uncle Frodo?"

Thorin just stared at him.

"I didn't read all of it," pouted the young wolf. "Just the first couple lines. Murron smacked me before I could finish."

The hobbit snorted. "Well, at least he's honest."

"Something he definitely did not inherit from his father," muttered the King. "The Elven-King has offered us three hundred archers to man the battlements and twenty healers to oversee our wounded. Tauriel will arrive in Dale next week with fifty of her own personally selected guardsmen."

"Brand will be relieved. Do they know when the Easterling army will arrive?"

"About two weeks, both Currin and Thranduil seem to believe." Thorin scrubbed at his face in frustration. "It aligns with the scouts' predictions."

"We knew the War of the Ring would reach our gates eventually, darling."

"I understand that, but I wasn't expecting it so soon. The assault on Minas Tirith and Osgiliath must already be underway, or at least imminent. And the Gordorian Steward is useless, too. That Ring-loving bastard just couldn't wait a few more years for the coward to croak and for Denethor's eldest son to take his place. At least the lad's competent in combat and has his brother to handle the administration part."

"Half of the Dark Lord's armies were diverted to us. That will count for something. Or a lot. You know that."

"It won't be enough if Frodo can't reach Mordor."

They went quiet and still for a few moments, eyes scanning over the missive and Currin's rough handwriting, snickering at some of the annoyed notes that she had placed along the margins. Tact wasn't one of her strong points. And it appeared that without Legolas to serve as a buffer, Thranduil was getting on the wolf's last nerve and an accident involving a barrel of red-wine may have occurred at some point.

"Nothing about Uncle Frodo?"

"We don't know where he or the Fellowship are at," snapped the dwarf. "I've told you this several times, Callum."

"Thorin..."

At the sight of their grandnephew shrinking away, the King released another sigh and reached out for the boy, gently bringing him forward into a one-armed embrace. Of all the children, Callum was the most fond of his hobbit uncle and often sought Frodo out between training and lessons and stuffing his face with food. He would've referred to the lad's playtime, but skin-changers had a bizarre idea of childhood pastimes, as they had learned in recent decades.

"I apologize, mizimith." He kissed the boy's messy curls. "I shouldn't be taking my frustrations out on you."

"Uncle Frodo's misplaced, so you're worried. I know."

The King chuckled at the comment. "Well, that's certainly one way of putting it. Although it wasn't my fault this time, just to make that clear."

"Papa thinks he'll make it."

"And we should be more optimistic like your father, too." Bilbo reached out and took Thorin's large, weathered hand. "Frodo's a bright lad and has enough Baggins and Took and Brandybuck running through his veins to laugh at the Dark Lord himself."

"Gimli's with him as well. There's no stopping that dwarf once he's on a mission."

Bones creaking as he pulled Callum between them—old age had finally caught up with him since the Ring's departure—Bilbo savored the familiar warmth and smell of a young child in his arms again. It wasn't quite the presence that he'd been yearning for, but the old hobbit wasn't about to complain, especially since Callum was a sweet lad and had remembered to put on half-decent clothes today. He was his mother's son through and through and a lack of nudity needed to be rewarded in their family. Maybe he would make that pear juice after all...

"It's just a temporary misplacement," said Bilbo, unconsciously hugging Callum even closer. The small patches of dark fur that dotted his skin were especially nice to cuddle into. "He'll be back. Frodo's stubborn like that."

"And I wonder where he gets that from."

"Don't make me kick you, Thorin Oakenshield. I may be old and have a grandchild in my lap, but I can still put you in your rightful place."

Golden eyes darted between them, their grandnephew obviously debating whether or not Bilbo's soft cuddles were worth the chance of being caught in a brutal war of kicks and pinches and flying pillows. Old age had lowered the royal couple's inhibitions and allowed them to behave in a manner that they would've never dared a few decades ago. Transferring a large amount of royal duties to Fíli and Kíli had helped a lot, too.

"Hobbits are so vicious."

Bilbo snorted in amusement. "I'm related to Otho and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. Of course, I'm cruel and vicious. It's in our blood."

"As Sauron should remember."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's all done! Another story down in this long-ass series of mine. Honestly, I'm pretty shocked by how complicated it's become; I had originally never intended for it to extend past _An Unexpected Addition_. Yet here we are, seven stories and 200,000+ words later. Well, I hope you guys enjoyed the silliness of Thorin misplacing his youngest nephew and the cruel endings that I deliver at the conclusion of every story. Blame Tolkien and canon for that. 
> 
> And yes, Thorin and Bilbo are technically grandfathers/granduncles now. They've gotten damned old by the War of the Ring.


End file.
